To My Dearest Padfoot
by Filtered Sunlight
Summary: Wolfstar. Post Ootp. Letter from Remus to Sirius. Need I say anything else?


**First off, I should probably apologize for this. But I decided to post something for the weekend. There are some other things I am writing, but this is the first thing I wanted to put up. I hope you enjoy it. It was only a little bit painful to write.**

**I do not own these lovelies. They all belong to the wondrous Jo Rowling (WHO IS WRITING THE SCREENPLAY FOR THE FANTASTIC BEASTS AND WHERE TO FIND THEM HARRY POTTER SPIN OFF OH MY GOD I AM GOING TO DIE).**

**Also, no beta on this, as on any of my writing (yikes). I own all my terrible mistakes. **

**. . . . .**

My dearest Padfoot

Who went to the Ministry of Magic

When I explicitly told him not to

And who is definitely dead because of it,

I like to think you are reading this letter. Over my shoulder, or something, I mean. Like maybe you can see me and now you're watching me and laughing at my horrid use of the word 'like'. I think it makes me feel better. Otherwise, I would be dead with grief already. The only real reason I'm not is because I have no guarantee that if I killed myself we would be together. Nothing in this world has given me any reason whatsoever to believe in anything like heaven. If stuff like that existed, I feel like I would not be a sad, jobless, poor werewolf with a dead boyfriend; I am pretty sure I have been generally a good person. Or maybe, because I have had such a horrible life, I am being prepared for some kind of Super Heaven. Like one with thousands of Padfoots (Padfeet?) and an ever replenishing supply of chocolate bars. Without you here, I have no one to buy chocolate for me on Earth. Which is really too bad (but it isn't all I kept you around for).

If you are reading this over my shoulder like you always did when I had a book or anything when you were alive, I am sorry if this letter to you seems too light for someone who has just been crushed by ten thousand tons of lead and had their heart ripped out and stomped on in some gravel. (This has not actually happened to me; it just feels quite like that is the case.) You should know, I would have written you a letter about what I feel right now, but if I did, I would have gone mad within the first sentence. Word. Letter. Quill- scratch. So I decided to write this instead. Which does not mention that I feel as though my windpipe has been tied in a knot and my insides have been removed and replaced with needles and that all of my full moons combined haven't felt half this bad. I hope you are thanking me. I know how you do with that kind of emotion. DID with that kind of emotion. The tenses are driving me absolutely crazy. I don't know what to use. It is complicated. I love you like I always have, but you aren't even here. You don't love me, as you are dead, and I am here. And even though my logical self (which has shrunk marvelously since your departure) knows you are not here and never will be again, it still feels like you are off in the other room, and if I call you, you are going to come bounding in like the puppy you were at one time. You should know, however, that I already tried this, and screaming "PADFOOT" over and over again into the void that is my empty apartment has resulted only in my neighbors worrying that I have finally lost it. And I don't really know what else to try. So, as you see, the problem of the tenses is really a very complex one.

There is some (don't say it. I know you are dying [insensitive?] to say it, but don't) serious things I do need to tell you. I miss you and it feels like I am the one who is dying, only it is taking an exceptionally long time. I can feel the knife digging into my chest and filling my lungs with blood and twisting and writhing so painstakingly slowly, but when I look down, there is a distinct lack of gore, which is dreadfully unsatisfying. I miss you and I am angry at the world because when we were together, it was cold and snowy and rainy, but now, when I most need it to be tea weather, it is bright and the sky is a garish blue and the clouds are blindingly white and I wish all the twittering birds would just fall over dead. I miss you and slamming my hand in doors, touching the hot stove, and scratching at my already scarred face with my nails isn't helping. I miss you and I miss you and I miss you and I miss you. There is not a time when this isn't playing over and over in my head like a heartbeat that (unfortunately) is refusing to fade out. I will lay in bed in the morning and I will listen to this heartbeat and my real one, both of which are going steady, and I will hope that I will feel them stop. I pray that one of these mornings I will feel them falter and then click off like that silence after the other telephone (the muggle thing) has been set down. However, every morning, they stay steady, and then I have to get up and I force myself into the shower (where maybe I will drown), and then I have to apparate to the Burrow (where maybe I will fatally splinch myself) so Molly can make sure I am breathing. Then I have to eat some soup or eggs or chicken or whatever (on which maybe I will choke) and then I have to go home and listen to my incessantly working body until I can go to sleep (during which maybe I will have a heart attack while I sleep) and start over again the next day.

I didn't think it was possible to feel like this. I didn't know hearts could actually break. Well, mine really feels like it has been slighted with long, thin cuts all over, leaving just enough untouched to still be called a heart. Which isn't any more pleasant. I wish you didn't go and I still felt like a person and that my life was different but it's not, so now I have to go lie down and I hope I dream about you. I haven't stopped loving you, which is a fact I curse every day.

Sirius.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

Your Remus

Who wishes he was dead

Whose friends and Padfoot are all gone in one way or another

And will never be called Moony again


End file.
